Read Online Lessons in Laughing Out Loud by Rowan Coleman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rowan Coleman
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in KFC at least twice a week on a sliding-scale ratio and Bob’s your uncle. A cleavage you could sink the Titanic in.”
India’s smile was barely there but at least it was present. “I would do that, but actually it doesn’t matter what I eat, I can’t put weight on. There was a story and a photo of me in Grazia the other week, wondering if I had an eating disorder, but the truth is I’m just skinny. I could eat my own weight in KFC every day and all that would happen would be I’d die of a heart attack before the age of thirty.” India patted her concave tummy and then rested her palm on it, her deep furrow slotting between her brows. “I wanted to say something, say I’m not anorexic, but Victoria says you must never say anything. Keep them guessing, that’s what Victoria says.”
“To be honest, Victoria doesn’t think that a spot of anorexia is necessarily a bad thing. The big fashion houses make a lot of noise about ‘healthy’-size models, but really the thinner the better.”
“I’ve never understood that.” India tightened her squeeze on the pillow over her stomach, as if she were imagining a wider girth. “Look at you, you’re not skinny and you’re gorgeous. If I was a man I’d much rather be in bed with a woman like you than a woman like me; you’ve got bits and bobs to fiddle with in all the right places. You’ve definitely lost weight since that awards thing Victoria made me go to.”
Willow thought about what had become of her nemesis and obsession, the digital scale in her bathroom. The number had steadily crept up by three pounds since that event.
“I don’t think I have. I think it’s these shoes, I think they must make my legs look longer or something.” In one fluid and entirely uncharacteristic movement, Willow left the refuge of the doorway entirely, popped her shoe-clad foot onto the lacquered bedside table, and pulled up her trouser leg.
India gasped, her eyes widening. “They are perfect! I’ve never seen any shoes that are so . . . just lovely and I’m normally a trainers sort of person.”
“They’re one-offs, a vintage pair, I found them in this weird little junk shop. Just sitting there. They fit me perfectly, and they must do something for me because ever since I’ve put them on people keep complimenting me, and no one ever compliments me.”
Finding it slightly more challenging to gracefully remove her leg from the table, Willow half stumbled, half hopped across India and collapsed on the bed next to her, gratified to hear the young woman chuckle as she landed, an audible puff of air being expelled with some force from the goose-down pillows.
“Show me again,” India commanded, and Willow cheerfully obliged, lifting her leg up slightly and pointing her toe as she displayed one shoe and then the other.
“Perhaps that’s what I need, shoes,” India said wistfully.
“If I was more sophisticated, if I dressed like an adult then maybe . . . maybe Hugh wouldn’t have just left me. Have you seen his wife? She looks so proper, like a proper person. Not like me, I don’t look proper at all. Perhaps if I have better shoes . . .”
“New shoes cure almost everything, but very rarely to that extent.”
“Maybe, or maybe I can substitute shoes for love, and be happy. Like you.” India realized what she said the second it came out of her mouth, clapping her hands over her offending orifice, her green eyes widening. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“No, it’s fine.” Willow was not offended. “Maybe I have substituted shoes for love. I’m fifteen years older than you, I’ve had plenty of lovers, I’ve been married and still . . . well, still there isn’t anyone who appears to love me. And maybe that and some wonderful shoes is just my life.”
“But that’s so sad,” India said, impulsively putting her hand on Willow’s knee. “And so not true. No one is meant to be alone, there is always someone for everyone.” Her head alighted unexpectedly on Willow’s
India’s smile was barely there but at least it was present. “I would do that, but actually it doesn’t matter what I eat, I can’t put weight on. There was a story and a photo of me in Grazia the other week, wondering if I had an eating disorder, but the truth is I’m just skinny. I could eat my own weight in KFC every day and all that would happen would be I’d die of a heart attack before the age of thirty.” India patted her concave tummy and then rested her palm on it, her deep furrow slotting between her brows. “I wanted to say something, say I’m not anorexic, but Victoria says you must never say anything. Keep them guessing, that’s what Victoria says.”
“To be honest, Victoria doesn’t think that a spot of anorexia is necessarily a bad thing. The big fashion houses make a lot of noise about ‘healthy’-size models, but really the thinner the better.”
“I’ve never understood that.” India tightened her squeeze on the pillow over her stomach, as if she were imagining a wider girth. “Look at you, you’re not skinny and you’re gorgeous. If I was a man I’d much rather be in bed with a woman like you than a woman like me; you’ve got bits and bobs to fiddle with in all the right places. You’ve definitely lost weight since that awards thing Victoria made me go to.”
Willow thought about what had become of her nemesis and obsession, the digital scale in her bathroom. The number had steadily crept up by three pounds since that event.
“I don’t think I have. I think it’s these shoes, I think they must make my legs look longer or something.” In one fluid and entirely uncharacteristic movement, Willow left the refuge of the doorway entirely, popped her shoe-clad foot onto the lacquered bedside table, and pulled up her trouser leg.
India gasped, her eyes widening. “They are perfect! I’ve never seen any shoes that are so . . . just lovely and I’m normally a trainers sort of person.”
“They’re one-offs, a vintage pair, I found them in this weird little junk shop. Just sitting there. They fit me perfectly, and they must do something for me because ever since I’ve put them on people keep complimenting me, and no one ever compliments me.”
Finding it slightly more challenging to gracefully remove her leg from the table, Willow half stumbled, half hopped across India and collapsed on the bed next to her, gratified to hear the young woman chuckle as she landed, an audible puff of air being expelled with some force from the goose-down pillows.
“Show me again,” India commanded, and Willow cheerfully obliged, lifting her leg up slightly and pointing her toe as she displayed one shoe and then the other.
“Perhaps that’s what I need, shoes,” India said wistfully.
“If I was more sophisticated, if I dressed like an adult then maybe . . . maybe Hugh wouldn’t have just left me. Have you seen his wife? She looks so proper, like a proper person. Not like me, I don’t look proper at all. Perhaps if I have better shoes . . .”
“New shoes cure almost everything, but very rarely to that extent.”
“Maybe, or maybe I can substitute shoes for love, and be happy. Like you.” India realized what she said the second it came out of her mouth, clapping her hands over her offending orifice, her green eyes widening. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“No, it’s fine.” Willow was not offended. “Maybe I have substituted shoes for love. I’m fifteen years older than you, I’ve had plenty of lovers, I’ve been married and still . . . well, still there isn’t anyone who appears to love me. And maybe that and some wonderful shoes is just my life.”
“But that’s so sad,” India said, impulsively putting her hand on Willow’s knee. “And so not true. No one is meant to be alone, there is always someone for everyone.” Her head alighted unexpectedly on Willow’s
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